Hello Dr. [REDACTED] Thank you for letting me book a therapy session on such short notice! You see, I had an incident the other day and I desperately need help to process it.
As I mentioned in our last session, I’ve had episodes for maybe six years or so, with every incident playing out pretty much the same each time. Except for two days ago. I think I made a real breakthrough!
It started just like last time,
I lie awake, listening to the rain tap, tap, tap against my bedroom window. The house breathes and creaks under the heavy rainfall. Falling asleep surrounded by this calming white noise would be easy for most, but I cannot sleep. No matter what I try, I am left restless, staring into my dimly lit bedroom. Shifting in bed, I feel my arms chest up, followed by my arms down to my toes. I lay petrified, praying that tonight it would spare me this nightmare. To my right, I hear my bedroom door unlatch, effortlessly gliding open to reveal nothing but a pitch black hallway. The hair on my neck bristles as a voice hisses into my ear, “Hello again, Jonathan.” My arms began itching, then burning as though covered by hundreds of biting ants. Scars from years of self-neglect prickle and sting, as the voice coos, “Shall we?”
I sob while fear burrows deeper into my mind. For a moment, every fiber of my being screams, “Enough!” but is met with silence. The wind and rain pause as the voice whispers, “Stand.” My legs spring into action, jolting me to stand at attention beside my bed. “Go downstairs,” commands the voice. I feel my body comply in a jerky motion, robotically marching toward the direction of the stairs. Screams well up in my throat but no sound comes out. I stop at the top of the staircase, “Downstairs,” repeats the voice. Lurching forward I feel my body clatter down the stairs. Every bump leaves behind a trail of welts and bruises, but I cannot catch myself. Battered, I hear the voice hiss, “Kitchen,” and my legs follow. Tears streaming down my face I await the sickening command my tormentor bids me, I am trapped, useless to attempt to regain control. “Not again,” I pray, “Not again, please!”
“Knife”
Like puppets, my hands shakily open the left farthest drawer of the cabinet. Gleaming polished steel catches beams of moonlight through the misty window above. With gritted teeth I push against the phantom’s grip. My fist clashes with the tile floor, clinging firmly to the knife despite my bruised fingers. “Let me go!” I roar, flinging the knife into the window, shattering the glass into a glittering array of shards.
“I shall return,” the Phantom promises.
The word came soaring out of my mouth, “NO!” and I collapse to the glass speckled floor. I cradle against my knees as the soothing, tap, tap, tap of the rain lulls me into a deep and dreamless sleep.
I haven’t heard from the phantom since that night. I’m able to sleep and my boss even said my work output is improving! Please message me back as soon as you can!
Sincerely,
[REDACTED]